Oed' und leer das Meer
by Jounouchi Kun Joey
Summary: After Pietro's death by anti-mutant activists, Eric and Charles (not Magneto and Professor X) have a short converstaion. One shot, angst


A/N: As always, my best fics come to me late at night, and this one happens to be one that cannot leave me alone, no matter how much I ask it too, it won't let me sleep. So, it probably won't be as good or as long as it would be on a normal basis because it's so late at night, however, I hope you will enjoy it ^.^. I'm a little afraid though, that Magneto came off to Gandalf-ish because Sir Ian McKellan plays them both, and I just hear his voice when I think of Magneto and not the voice from Evo. Hope that isn't too much of a problem for people ^.^; Oh yeah, the title means "Desolate and Empty sea" in German. I thought it fit rather nicely.  
  
Disclaimer: Still don't own them, sorry.  
  
Summery: After Pietro dies thanks to a group of anti-mutant activists, Charles and Eric (not Professor X and Magneto) have a talk.  
  
Authoress: JKJ (Jounouchi_kun_joey@yahoo.com)  
  
Title: Oed' und leer das Meer  
  
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There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying 'Stetson! 'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! 'That corpse you planted last year in your garden, 'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? 'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? 'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men, 'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!  
  
~T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland, lines 69-75  
  
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It always seems to rain on the days when Eric should be crying and can't. Perhaps it is his beloved Katelyn crying for him from heaven, crying for the tears he cannot shed. I roll my chair over the soggy grass, with only minor difficulties, to where he stands upon the edge of the unimaginable darkness that must one day claim her own, mutant or not. I say nothing for a moment, only follow his blue gaze down to the mahogany chest that shall never again yield up her treasure, the treasure he sees now he should have taken while yet it was to be had.  
  
I am mildly surprised that it is Eric who first breaks the silence between us. "I have killed my children, Charles, with my own two hands. One I killed in spirit, twice over, and now the other's blood stains my hand because it was I that made him into a solider for a cause in which he did not believe. I might as well have signed his death warrant." He does not look up from the grave, and neither do I, as my eyes read carefully the inscription upon the top. Pietro Maximoff, 1988-2005, is all it simply reads. I find my voice after a few more moments of listening only to the rain fall upon our heads.  
  
"I am sorry I have no comfort to give you, Eric. The past cannot be changed, nor the future seen." I do not have to read his mind to know what he is thinking. 'Always the philosopher aren't you, Charles.' Yet when he speaks it is not with any emotion other then one would expect from any parent that had lost a child, that of pain and grief and loss.  
  
"I could never tell him I loved him, Charles, but I did. We both know I did."  
  
"Yes," I say softly, "you did love your children, once."  
  
"I loved them always," he continues, no anger at my harsh comments, for though now we are friends we still cannot deny the truth that our ideals must always collide, "both of them. I only wanted what was best for them, and I thought I was doing the right thing. In doing so, I have lost what was most precious to me."  
  
"What did you expect from them, Eric? They were only children, why did you try and force them to be soldiers?" I could know the answer to this, if I chose, without having to ask, but I want him to say it. I want to hear him tell me why he took his two dear children, the darling twins I had occasionally babysat when Eric and I were both younger and still good friends, and turned them into two teenagers who knew only anger, and fear, and hate.  
  
"I don't know," his voice is broken now, though I know he will not break forever, "somewhere I lost what I was trying to find in this war of mine." I see him glance at the stone to the left of where Pietro's own headstone is to be placed, and its inscription of Katelyn Magnus, 1960-1993. Losing his wife to a group of, then the minority, anti-mutant activists had destroyed the Eric I knew, changing him into Magneto the warrior. Yet now Eric was back, grieving for a son lost to the same group, for the same reason. He gave a sad, almost ironic, chuckle. "They were my reason for starting this war, Charles, and now both are merely casualties of it, eventually to become nothing more than a statistic, like those of our time, in other wars before, after those that could place faces with those numbers are gone."  
  
Mildly, I wonder who it is now that became a philosopher, though he is right. "Pietro was a good boy, and he loved you, Eric."  
  
"That is why this is worse then my Kate," this reply was so faint I almost didn't catch it, "because she at least had heard me say it too her. She died knowing that I had loved her, and always would. Pietro thought I saw him as nothing more than a solider." His eyes were bright now, seeming to stare past the smooth wood that would keep his beloved little boy locked away forever. "Did he not realize that it hurt me every time I had to pretend that I didn't care? Every time he looked at me with those heartbroken blue eyes of his, from which his every hidden emotion would play, that my heart ached to make him see that this was for him. I was making him strong so he could lead the mutants into the future I would not live to see! So that he would survive!" His voice softened again as thunder raged overhead. "That doesn't matter now. Pietro is dead, and Wanda is dead, and everything I ever wanted to fight for and protect has died by my own hands. Their blood shall be upon my head."  
  
I say nothing, for what is there to say. It is an undeniable truth that, had Eric not changed his course upon Katelyn's death, his children, perhaps, might not have become what they are now, one a soulless shell the other a silent corpse. Instead I do the only thing I can.  
  
"Come on, Eric, it is time to go." He nods, still no tears falling, and turns away, leaving only me and the silent dead. I now look again upon the inscription, and the wreath of flowers placed upon it. I remember the faces of those that walked to his coffin before they shut the lid to say farewell for a final time. I remember the face of his sister, soulless though she is, so distraught that she could not be allowed in for more than a few moments. I can see the face of his friends, Todd and Freddy, both stricken by the sudden loss of someone who seemed untouchable. Tabby and Rouge too look heartsick, Pietro having been their friend though neither would admit too it. Most prominently of all comes the face of Mister Alvers, Lance, as with a face void of emotion he walks to the casket, and places inside two objects, a picture of the Brotherhood members all smiling, and a rose with red-tipped white pedals. I do not have to read his mind, as it is broadcasting powerful images of the bond of undying loyalty and friendship expressed, without words, between the two of them. I don't doubt that Mister Alvers will always carry this loss with him, and he at least will never forgive or forget what Eric has done. What Magneto had done, for they are not quite the same thing. I smile sadly down at the lonely grave.  
  
"Good-bye, Pietro. You shall be missed, by your father most of all." Then I turn my chair and wheel away, as lightning flashes in the sky.  
  
End A/N: So, what did you think? Depressing beyond depressing? The symbolism of the quote that starts this is that Waste Land is a poem about WWI, and the symbolism of the dog digging up the grave is taken from another play where it says that a wolf digs up the grave the person was murdered or something like that. All the studying of this fantastic poem is getting me very confused. Anyway, review, ignore, whatever.  
  
-JKJ 


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